“All because he and your first husband shared the same first name?”
“And the same wife, don’t forget. And similar jobs.”
“Oh?”
“Both of them worked in maintenance at Kemco. My first husband didn’t have as good a job as my second, who was head of the maintenance crew. But it was in the same area. And the coincidence of it bothered him.”
“I admit it’s kind of strange, but why get obsessed with it?”
“George — the second George — worked at another chemical processing plant in the Midwest, before coming to Greenwood. It wasn’t a Kemco facility; I believe it was Monsanto. He felt Kemco was... this is what I hesitate to get into with you because I’m afraid it will only serve to reinforce your obsession.”
“Mrs. Price. Please go on.”
“He felt Kemco was borderline negligent. At the other plant he worked at, when the government would hand down a pollution level, for example, the company would set its own, stricter policy, well below what the government would allow. But at Kemco, George said, they would push it to the limit, and beyond, if they felt they could get away with it.”
“I see.”
“And he generally felt that the safety procedures at the local plant were lax. He and other workers had been exposed to dangerous chemicals, hazardous substances. But he could never do anything about it. Neither management nor union seemed to care. He said.”
“I’m still not sure if I understand how this relates to his obsession about your first husband.”
“Simple. He thought he was getting cancer.”
“Was he?”
“I have no way of knowing. He would never see a doctor about it.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“Yes, and nothing was turned up.”
“But cancer wasn’t what they were looking for.”
“If it was advanced, they’d have found it.”
“If it was in beginning stages, they might not.”
“Possibly. But it was probably all just the delusion of a jealous, neurotic man. The ‘other’ George caught cancer working at Kemco, so now the same thing was happening to him. He thought.”
“Do you think there could be any truth to it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know a friend of Mary Beth’s named Anne Boone?”
“Yes, I’ve met her. She’s doing research of some sort, gathering data on Greenwood itself. She interviewed me, several months ago.”
“But you didn’t tell her all of what you’ve told me.”
“No. Judging from the questions she asked, she would’ve been interested in hearing about my husband’s concerns about safety and other problems at Kemco. But I didn’t tell her.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I don’t really know. How do you happen to know about my conversation with Ms. Boone?”
“I’ve heard the tape of it.”
She stiffened. “Oh really?”
“It’s all right — I’m working with Ms. Boone. We’re compiling evidence that may show Kemco negligent in several areas... including the areas that concerned your husband. Are you aware that the cancer rate in Greenwood is well above the national average?”
“No...”
“And the same is true for birth defects, and miscarriages. Not to mention the suicide rate: five suicides in not much more than a year. All by Kemco employees.”
“I take it you don’t believe they’re suicides.”
“Not all of them. At least one does seem to be a legitimate suicide.”
“Of course. The man who shot himself and his family. I remember. I had the children in school.”
“But I suspect Mary Beth had information about Kemco’s negligence, which may have cost her her life.”
“And you think my husband had the same or similar information?”
“If he was as obsessed with Kemco’s negligence as you say he was, wouldn’t he have sought it out?”
She thought about that.
Then she rose.
“Mr. Crane,” she said, and from her tone it was clear school was being dismissed, “I have work to do.”
Crane got out of the chair, put it back where he’d found it.
He said, “I hope you’ll think about what I’ve said.”
“I will. But I have to warn you. I don’t share my late husband’s opinions where Kemco is concerned. Kemco has a solid record of civic concern in Greenwood. They donated the land this school is built on. They provide work for many of our city’s residents. Some of the people who run that plant are former students of mine. I’m seeing a man right now who is employed there. So don’t look at me as an ally. I’m still of the opinion that you are very much on the wrong track. George killed himself. As much as I hate to think it, I’m afraid Mary Beth did the same.”
“I’m staying at Ms. Boone’s, if you think of anything else I should know.”
“I doubt you’ll be hearing from me.”
“Well, just in case.”
“All right. Now, I don’t like to seem ungracious, but I do have papers to mark.”
He said, “Of course,” and walked to the door.
As he was about to go out, he heard her voice from behind him: “If we do talk again, Mr. Crane, perhaps I could tell you about Mary Beth. Some things I remember about her from when she was in my class.”
“Was it this classroom?” Crane asked.
“Yes. The first year the school was built. First class I ever taught.”
“Where did she sit?”
“That seat to your left. Last one in the third row.”
Crane walked over to it and touched the back of the seat.
Then he went to the door, turned and said, “We’ll talk again,” and left.
He walked the several blocks to Boone’s house, confused, not knowing quite what to make of Mrs. Price. Or Mrs. Meyer, for that matter. He was almost on top of it before he noticed the blue Chrysler with the Kemco logo on the door, parked in front of Boone’s house.
A guy in his twenties with short black hair, mustache and a short-sleeved white shirt with black-and-white striped tie got out of the car and said, “Are you Crane?”
“Yes.”
“Boone would like to talk with you.”
Boone? What would she have to do with this guy?
Then he understood.
“Patrick Boone, you mean?”
“That’s right,” the guy said. “He said if you’re willing to come talk, I’m to give you a lift out to Kemco.”
Crane got in the car.
Chapter Eighteen
This was the first time he’d seen the Kemco plant in the daytime, and it seemed less impressive, and not at all sinister: the sheets of mottled aqua plastic that were the walls of the larger buildings looked somehow insubstantial, houses of cards that might topple momentarily; the pipes twining in and out and around these plastic-sheeted structures reminded him of the jungle gym in that dreary little playground he’d been standing near just an hour or so before.